Beast of the Damned #2

*Chapter Twenty-Two*

~ TRISTAN ~

Primitive.

Swoosh...Baam...Stomp Stomp...Whoosh...

Sensual.

Fluid...unrefined...dangerous...

Kinley's feet stomp into the ground, her body bending to the internal rhythm coursing through her. She spins on the tips of her toes, back arched as her hands become a painter's brush, commanding the gods to pay attention.

Fangs elongate, scleras darken, and the scent of venom fills the air. Even the humans sitting in a half-circle are mesmerized, more joining the huddle around Kinley, each drawn to her the same way she pulls in my warriors. We are slave to each motion as if Kinley's movements themselves are crafting the music she dances to inside us all. Thumping. Pulsing. Gyrating. The lull of the Underworld. The persuasion of the dark arts clashing with Kinley's light.

I can't lose focus on why I'm here. A blindfolded Kinley out in the open is the perfect temptation, perfect bait, perfect...hunger.

Using the flat of my tongue, I soothe the sensitivity rocketing into my fangs. Heat fans the flames of the ember that belongs to Kinley, the silkiness of her slip gliding effortlessly across her skin as if it where the hand of lust.

The winds pick up as Kinley's dancing becomes frenzied, her soul on fire. It's like the darkness that cloaks her eyes becomes her, yet the purity of her light still manages to seep through, teasing us with the taste of Heaven that flows within her. It's a collision of fire and ice, sin and grace while simultaneously being damned and blessed.

Treetops swoosh alongside Kinley as a haunting melody mixed with harsh and silken tones carries in the hissing winds, the words themselves sounding like the forked tongue of a snake is speaking them. One by one, the Warrior's of the Damned take a knee.

Strike. Strike. Strike. My warriors bang their fists into the chest plate of their armor seven times, a collective hiss marrying with the whispers swirling around Kinley as she twirls faster and faster.

The humans in the half-circle go still when Kinley falls to the ground for her finishing pose, head bowed, except one. The human stands, her eyes trained on the translucent female walking toward Kinley with hair red as fire and skin so pale I doubt she's ever seen a day of sun. The female is unclothed, the metallic blue of her reflective eyes hypnotic as power I have never felt before radiates off her. The strange part is this female vampire's pupils are not round. They are slits like those of a serpent.

Before I can get an accurate reading on this new energy, an angel appears mid-air, arm drawn back with her bow pointed at the massarra before her. The angel lets the arrow go, the fletching brushing against her cheek as it hurls toward a bowed Kinley. The tip of the arrow breaks through the spiritual energy of the naked female reaching for Kinley, disrupting her hold in this realm.

The arrow doesn't make it to its intended target.

I lift the angel I caught by the throat higher into the air, snapping the arrow's shaft with my free hand. I unleash the sound of hell directly in the angel's face—the whimsical wisp of her gold-dusted hair no match for the current of ice-riddled fury.

There are two types of fires that thrive in the Underworld. One is so hot it melts flesh and incinerates souls. It's the hellfire most humans picture when they think of the Underworld. But there is a second fire that burns blue. It's the one that compels me. A blistering cold that turns the air around me into ice and bones into brittle glass.

I drop the angel on the ground. The golden luster to her skin toned down as she's no longer in the heavenly kingdom from which she hails. But I can see it just fine in the sunlight as she screams in utter agony. The splendid sounds of her tasty bones cracking ring out into delight-filled pops.